


Returns and Readjustments

by Sidrisa



Series: 1000 Points of Light [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10799958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidrisa/pseuds/Sidrisa
Summary: After a whole lot of Power and Magic and a few Worries and Misunderstandings, you've returned home to take up your mantle as the Queen of the Lowlands. But even though going home was the one thing you desired most, taking your rightful place is not as easy as it seems. Nor is it easy for your friends, your beloved Se'risa, and a certain Prince who may wish for everything to go back to the way it was.Sequel to Blood and MagicSister to Worries and Misunderstandings





	1. The Tower

**Author's Note:**

> To celebrate (belatedly) the one year anniversary of my most popular fic ever, LET'S HAVE SOME MORE!
> 
> This is going to be a lot of angst tied up in original characters. Sorry if that's not what you're here for. But there are some issues that need to be resolved that I didn't get the chance to cover in Blood and Magic that I'm going to try and work out here. And if you love Se'risa and the Princess and protective!caring!Loki the way I do, I think you'll appreciate whats going to happen here. 
> 
> For all the people who found me via Blood and Magic and left such wonderful day-making comments, thank you. You are why I can keep going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you notice a theme, it is because I am Persona 5 TRASH.

You are a fool. A  _ damn _ fool. The crown upon your head, though it is not yet upon your head--that ceremony will come within the fortnight--has done nothing to improve your faculties. In fact your ascension has made you even more foolish judging from the way you’ve abandoned all sense of self preservation to get down from your infernal steed and  _ walk _ among the people come to greet you. 

 

His throat closes as the morass of bodies closes behind you, you’re lost, swallowed up. In his father’s lands you were easy to pick from a crowd. You were different, you walked differently, spoke differently. You were a drop of gold in a sea of pearls. Here you are a drop gold in a sea of amber and onyx and agate. Here  _ he _ is the pearl.

 

They choke the streets shouting for you. They press as close as they can, grasping for you. They sing your praises as they shout your name but to him it all sounds like a mad frenzy. That the hands straining to touch the hem of your cape or your outstretched and open arms could just as quickly turn to claws that rend and tear. You’ve no way of knowing if the sect that allowed your cousin and uncle to rule remain loyal to their old masters. Traitors could easily slip a dagger into the hands that reach for you.

 

But.

 

He can tell their love is true. They love you. Openly. Ardently. They fill streets to sing to you. To see you. To catch threads from your hem to take home and enshrine. 

 

He watches you walk among your people suddenly realizing that when-not if,  _ when _ \- he is crowned king no one will sing for him this way. Nor cherish the fleeting touch of his hand. His coronation will fill no city streets. And parents will bring him no babies to bless. His subjects won’t love him the way you are loved and he’s... fine with it. Let Thor or Odin be loved, he requires only loyalty.

 

And deference.

 

And maybe even a little bit of fear.

 

But love? You can keep their love. Dole it out to the people like scraps before beggars if you must. Do whatever you want with their love so long as you remember who deserves  _ yours _ .

 

These people know nothing about you. They know nothing of your heart. They fawn and fret over you as the masses do, but sheep do that for anyone and anything they don’t understand. 

 

This isn’t love, this is awe.

 

But him?

 

He knows you. More than these peasants, more than the soldiers behind him and that Commander that keeps looking at him with undisguised disdain. More than even little Se’risa, he _knows_ you. 

 

He keeps your secrets. He knows your desires, your fears. He has count of your battle scars, and knows the number of your freckles. He’s fought with you, he’s fought you, he’s brought you back from the very brink of death. He’s seen you sad and scared. He’s felt your wrath and your passion. Known your love and your hate.

 

He knows your heart  _ and _ your mind. 

 

Only your dead and gone mother could know you,  _ love you, _ better than he.

 

And you better not forget that.

 

But...

 

You haven’t given him so much as a glance since you passed the city gates. 

 

And as you descend further and further into the crowd, swallowed whole by a city of people, he smiles, made painfully aware of the unfortunate but apt metaphor. These people will take you from him, consume you. Not a matter of if, nor of when, it’s already here. Now. Happening right before his eyes.

 

He rides in silence, suppressing the urge to spur his horse and trample the thick swarm of bodies before him, eliminate some of his competition. He chuckles darkly, knowing how cruel that sounds, sometimes he shocks himself with his thoughts. And those dark thoughts turn down darker corners and end up in places they shouldn’t be.

 

Since they’ve taken you from him he, in turn, could take them from you. Betray the betrayer and end up on top for it.

 

He knows your secrets, your heart, both could be twisted to his purpose and used to orchestrate your downfall. Se’risa, your heir, is put on the throne, and he her regent until she reaches maturity only, regrettably, she doesn’t. Then, before your barons can muster armies, his will be here, courtesy of his father. The lords are toppled and he becomes a king.

 

Easy. 

 

So easy he’s sick with how quickly and simply the plots align in his favor. And for what? Appealing to his darker notions to protect his softer, weaker ones?

  
  


He’s supposed to trust you. He supposes he does. But trust is easier to wield against paranoia, much harder when the evidence is right here in front of him, shouting your name while you drink it all up.

 

Except.

 

The shouts have dimmed now, noticeably, and he’s certain he hasn’t gone deaf yet.

 

“We’re here.” Se’risa rides a pony next to him, her grip on the reins is tight, her brown knuckles almost white.

 

The crowd parts and you emerge from it looking...different. Your confidence, your joy, is gone, your gold has faded to brass, and even from a distance he can see the tremor in your hands.

 

The sickness in the pit of his stomach grows, turns into self-disgust. He was so worried about what he could lose, he’s forgotten all about what you have already lost.

 

Everything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casual reminder, Loki's a dick.


	2. Three of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know the three of swords is not a companion arcana in P5 but it was the best I could find that fits Se'risa in this moment.

 

The grass is longer here. It’s hotter, it smells different, dirtier. Se’risa thinks that’s not a nice thought to have about her home, but Princesses tell the truth: home smells like dirt.

 

Asgard was cleaner, it smelled like metal and perfume. Here it's just dirt. It fills her nose like she’s breathing it, pressed her face to the ground and inhaling it. 

 

She remembers.

 

**

 

She must stay still, she must be quiet, and when the soldiers go away...she must run!

 

And run.

 

And run.

 

But she can’t, not yet. The boy, Phillip, he got up and ran too soon. 

 

“How long are we going to be out here?”

 

“Until we’re sure! I counted five, but there are only four bodies here. None of this will work if someone escapes to tell the truth.”

 

She ran like you told her.

 

_ “Run girl! And do not stop!” _

 

So she ran, down the servant’s corridor and out into the hot night. She found more like her, servants escaping the palace carnage. And when she found them, soldiers found them all. Some ran and were killed. Others fought and were killed. She and Phillip chose to hide, small bodies concealed in the long grass that itched terribly on this too hot night. But he got up and ran too soon. He didn’t even cry when the spear hit his back.

 

“C’mon Agah, I’m sure we got everyone. Captain Fa’Rey said…”

 

There are two of them, two women. The bigger woman stabs the ground inches from her face. Her voice is deep, raspy, Se’risa can smell the pipe smoke and hear it in her voice.

 

“Captain Fa’Rey said be sure!”

 

She’s escaped the palace, she’s run just like you told her. But she’s small and alone and scared. Dirt clogs her nose and she presses more in to mute the sound of her breathing. She must be quiet.

 

Agah groans and turns away, stopping to pull her spear out of the dirt, wafting dust and mud into Se’risa’s face. 

 

“Alright. Let’s go back.”

 

**

 

The grass is longer here, it's hotter, and it smells like dirt.

 

She’s not happy, not like the people are, or the soldiers, or you. She doesn’t cheer or wave, though she could if she wanted to, princesses wave in royal processions but…

 

_ “Don’t...don’t...we are only servants, we’ll serve any master, please I beg you-- ‘Risa run!” _

 

Here she’s a servant. Her parents were servants. Mama was a cook, Papa worked as a guard. She was a maid who ran sesame cakes from the kitchens to your rooms.

 

Now  _ her _ rooms.

 

The maid they give her is taller than she is, older too. When she curtsies the ends of her braids barely reach the top of her head.

 

“Naima will see to your every comfort.”

 

You’re not here to settle her in, Se’risa’s not even sure you’re in the palace at all, she hasn’t seen you since the procession. You disappeared leaving Niti to look after her until she got shuffled away into another wing of the palace where they keep dignitaries and nobles not of royal blood. That’s where Prince Loki went too, leaving her at the mercy of this woman she doesn’t remember from before.

 

She introduces herself as Lady Khadija. “I run the Queen’s household, oversee all her servants, and attend to the needs of her guests. I am told you are the crown princess now and so you will have the crown princess’s rooms.”

 

Her servant’s chambers in Asgard were bigger, the first of likely many comparisons. Lady Khadija is a nice woman, though she remembers another woman had her role...Lady….Lady Hava.

 

But, she realizes, Lady Hava is dead, the first of likely many realizations.

 

“Can you tell me where Prince...Ambassador Loki’s rooms are?”

 

Lady Khadija stiffens, her eyebrows rising into her hairline. “Does the princess negotiate treaties with Asgardians all on her own now?”

 

If Prince Loki were here, he’d tell her to say yes. “Adults will think you simple for being a child. You’re not. They’ll try to make you look foolish. Don’t let them. When they ask you stupid questions, answer them smartly and they’ll never make that mistake again.”

 

“He is our guest. In the Queen’s absence,  _ I _ should be the one to make sure he’s well taken care of.”

 

Naima’s mouth falls and Khadija audibly gasps before collecting herself. “I...well…”

 

Se’risa hardens her gaze, you taught her to make this face, a method to get her way every time. “They won’t expect it. They expect you to behave a certain way, and when you don’t, it’ll scare them. It will teach them. You are more than a princess in name only.”

 

“Do you not know Lady Khadija?” Se’risa asks sweet enough to poison.

 

“I believe the Ambassador is lodged in the Magnolia Room. I can summon him if--”

 

“No. I will go myself,” Se’risa smiles. “I remember where it is.” 

 

The Magnolia Room, she recalls, is in the east wing, a few doors shy of the servant’s entrance. Asgard was a maze she never finished, but here, she took her first steps in these halls. As a maid, her feet wore tracks in the stone running sesame cakes from her mother’s oven to your mouth. It’s early twilight, they’ll be baking now for the after dinner courses. For the first time since arriving here Se’risa smells sweetness instead of dirt.

 

Lady Khadija exits quickly but Naima proves tougher to lose.

 

“I’m supposed to wait on you.” She looks bored and possibly upset she has to play servant to a girl half her size and two-thirds her age.

 

“You don’t have to.” And she doesn’t, she didn’t have a maid in Asgard-- Niti  _ does not!  _ count--and she doesn’t plan on keeping one here.

 

“Lady ‘ija says I do.”

 

“I say you don’t.”

 

“But I’ll get in trouble.”

 

“Don’t tell anyone then.”

 

Naima’s eyes widen as if she heard the most scandalous thing. “Are you sure?”

 

“I don’t really want a servant.”

 

“What kind of Princess says  _ that _ ?”

 

“The kind who’d rather have a friend.”

 

They don’t part as friends, it’s still too early for that, rather the two girls part as co-conspirators, conniving to get one over on the boorish Mistress Khadija. Naima returns to her rooms and Se’risa takes advantage of her memories, using the servant’s corridor to arrive in the kitchens. 

 

The bakers pay her no mind, she remembers they never did, she’s too small, too plainly dressed to be anything but a scullery girl. She reaches for a plate of cakes meant for noble mouths when a man smacks the counter.

 

“Shoo girl shoo not for you!”

 

“Abana n’ath me adeeze!”

 

The words fly from her rote. It’s the standard, what all servants used to say when they wanted to steal from the kitchens. 

 

_ It is for the Princess. _

 

She hasn’t spoken them in...but the words still come, a reflex, an instinct.

 

The man makes a face, then smiles, then sends her along with a few extra cakes for her trouble.

 

**

 

Her feet move without direction, they know where she’s going. Left. Right. Then left again. She munches happily on her spoils, satisfied with their sweetness and with the way the little white seeds stick between her teeth. They taste like Mama made them with her own hands, they must use her recipe, or she taught them, or they knew her or…

  
They smell like her. Like home: a tiny apartment in the south wing. There’s a door on the left that will take her there. She shared a room with mama and papa, she kept her toys in a chest under the bed. She wonders if it’s still there. 

 

Se’risa swallows a thick lump of cake and nostalgia and decides to see for herself.

 

Her feet move without direction, then they stop of their own accord. 

 

The hall is dark, it’s quiet in the twilight hours of the day when most of the servants are preparing for the evening meal. And nobles don’t come this way, it’s too dark and drafty.

 

That’s why she brought you here, it wasn’t well traveled, it’d be empty. 

 

The soldiers wouldn’t see them.

 

_ Stay close. Stay quiet. _

 

The stone walls press in, like a fist closing in around her. Se’risa panics and turns around, makes a right instead of a left and goes through the wrong door.

 

_ Be quiet ‘Risa please. _

 

She turns back, but her feet have forgotten. This isn’t the way. Instead of escaping she’s taken deeper down the corridor, dimly lit save for a few sparse torches. It’s sunset but it feels like a hot night.

 

_ Papa will come soon, just shhh! _

 

She goes through another door, hoping this will lead her to a main hall but--

 

_ Halt! In the name of the King! _

 

That’s wrong, she thinks. You have a Queen and a Princess...not a King.

 

Her feet stumble as the plate of sesame cakes shake in her hand. Turning around only makes her more lost so she pushes forward, hoping, praying that the door ahead will take her where she needs to go.

 

_ Down the servant’s hall. Run! _

 

Her feet move, without direction, she knows this hall. She’ll never forget it.

 

It’s hot. But there is no grass and it doesn’t smell like dirt.

 

But blood. It smells like blood.

 

_ “By order of King Fa’Dan-” _

 

_ “Don’t...don’t...we are only servants, we’ll serve any master, please I beg you-- ‘Risa run!” _

 

She sees the blood on the stone even though it’s not there, it’s been cleaned and the bodies, her mother’s body, has long been buried. But for someone for whom this trauma is still so fresh, there is still blood on the stone.

 

Se’risa cries out when the spear stabs her mother and drops her plate of sesame cakes. It shatters and the sound of broken earthenware reverbs down the hall.

 

“What’s that! Who goes? Oh! By the stars, tis’ only a girl.” 

 

A guard arrives. A large woman. Se’risa can smell the pipe smoke and hear it in her voice.

 

“Where are you going little one?”

 

**

 

This isn’t the guard that killed her mother. She killed Phillip. He ran too soon and she didn’t even need to chase him down.

 

“I...I…”

 

She smiles and bends down to meet her eye. “It’s okay little one, I’ll not hurt you. What are you doing here? Carrying cakes where they ought not go?”

 

The guard laughs, and it’s warm, happy. Se’risa shivers, hearing the same broken rasp that laughed when her spear pierced Phillip’s back.

 

“Oh! Don’t cry! I won’t report you to Mistress Khadija. Before her, stolen cakes were never such an offense.”

 

They weren’t. Lady Hava never cared. Lady Hava sometimes thieved herself.

 

But Hava is dead. Like Phillip is dead.

  
He ran too soon.

 

“Where are you going, come, tell me and I’ll see you get there.” The guard smiles wider and gathers the cakes that didn’t crumble when they hit the floor. One she plucks one and pops it into her mouth, the others she salvages and places on handkerchief.

 

“M...Ma…”

 

_ Mama! _

 

_‘Risa…’Risa by the stars Run!_ She screams at herself to move, to run like you told her but her feet remain in place.

 

“Ah! The Magnolia Room. Come child, let’s go.”

 

Only the guard’s steady hand at her back can get her to move more than a few paces at a time. Se’risa follows mute, convinced she can still see her mother’s blood in the stone. 

 

She wants to go home.

 

She wants you, Loki, Niti, anyone. She almost cries out, but she remembers the long grass and the too hot night. 

 

The smell of dirt.

 

She must be quiet and still before she can run.

 

The guard knocks at the door to the Magnolia room.

 

“What!”

 

“Your girl is here.” The guard barks. 

 

“What girl? I didn’t…little filly? What are you…?”

 

She holds up the handkerchief of sweet cakes unable to do anything else, and the guard, satisfied with her duty done, leaves them both. When the guard is gone, she runs, bolts forward into the room and turns quickly to slam the door shut behind her. She bends down and curls up, she squeezes her eyes shut and holds her breath so she doesn’t smell the dirt.

 

“Se’risa!”

 

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Be quiet.

 

She waits for the sound of boots to disappear. It was harder before, the long grass made it difficult to hear. She waits then she lets herself breathe again.

 

And she smells...metal and perfume.

 

Asgard.

 

Home.

 

“Little filly tell me what’s happened?”

 

She cries, she doesn’t mean to, she doesn’t want to, but the prince places a soft hand on her shoulder and she breaks apart, crumbles like the sesame cakes.

 

“I remembered too much.”


	3. Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick word! Thanks to all the folks leaving comments they're beautiful and it is def what keeps me motivated to keep going.
> 
> I know some of you have asked but I have no intention of making this a long fic like Power and Magic. I have the ideas (oh for sure for sure for sure) but not the stamina nor the time. (I was updating sometimes daily during P&M) And I wanna make sure because I love you and my characters so much that whatever I start I finish. This fic is 1/3 posted 2/3rds finished. I was working on The Tower for months before I finally thought it good enough to post. (and fr fr it was only going to be one chapter but breaking through the block I discovered there was a multi chaptered story here go figure)
> 
> So while I'd LOVE to write something like P&M again its not in the cards.  
> HOWEVER that doesn't mean you won't get any more stories featuring your favorite people (With Thor Ragnarok around the corner?? CHILE) It just means when I do they'll be much much shorter.
> 
> AND who knows. I lie and dissemble and trick a lot (sound familiar) If I find the strength in me and the time I may sit down and put to paper (computer) the sequel to Power and Magic. Who knows maybe the stars will find a way. :P

Agah is the name he takes with him. It's the name he tries to take to you but no one can find you. You haven’t been seen for days.

 

After Se’risa sobbed through her story, he’s surprised he didn’t immediately track down that guard and pull her heart out through her mouth. Instead he quietly, patiently, drew her to his chest and asked Se’risa herself.

 

“What would you have me do?”

 

She doesn’t answer, she just sinks into him, wringing out the last of her tears until her little body gives into fitful sleep. 

 

He places the child in his bed.

 

And goes hunting.

 

If it were you, making a gift of the guard’s head might please you. Though, as he recalls, you couldn’t stomach taking the heads of the very people who put their blades through your back. And though murder is the most satisfying option, to him at least, he understands this isn’t Asgard anymore. Lives, even the lives of your enemies, are not quite his to take. They’re yours.

 

And since he can’t find you, and since Se’risa’s tears compel him to act swiftly, he takes the name to your commander: N’inge.

 

She scowls when she sees him, contempt folds the creases in her forehead and tightens her bony hands into a fist. She looks at him as though he brought death in with him. Accurate. He has. He lays out Agah’s crimes but she doesn’t seem too shocked to hear them. 

 

“What are you asking then?”

 

“Get rid of her. I don’t care how. But I have a few creative ideas if you’re lacking inspiration.”

 

She’s stays silent longer than he’d like, damn, he may have made a mistake. You trust this woman so he foolishly assumed she was worthy of trust. He’s revealed one of the traitors in the very heart of the palace and she looks at him like he’s a stain on her boot, that the very knowledge is an inconvenience to her.

 

“Agah you say?”

 

“Yes.” He grits his teeth, planning for two murders instead of just one. But first he must be sure. 

 

“And how come you by this name?” She asks.  


 

“What does it matter? She needs to be gone. I don’t understand how her head’s not on a spike already. Surely you must have known. Unless you turn blind eyes to treason down here.”

 

“Sir!” Those bony fists strike her desk when she vaults to her feet. “If I dealt with every traitor who took up arms in the coup we’d run out of pikes!”

 

“Thus always to traitors.” He waves away her objection. “Let the Ivory City run red if it must. I wonder if this carelessness is a function of your age or your neglect?”

 

He needles her. If he makes her angry, he can make her slip, reveal where her loyalties lie so he can strike.

 

“We’d run out of an army too!” Her face contorts when she bites down on her words. They hurting her.

 

“So you’ll do nothing?”

 

“I cannot!”

 

“Can’t or  _ won’t _ Commander? I wonder what the queen will think? Why don’t you bring her here? Tell her to her face you let killers roam free.”

 

“Agah has already been pardoned for her role in the coup. Most rank and file soldiers were!”

 

“You pardoned them?” The shells of his ears redden, the hot anger creeps up his neck and splashes blood red color across the bridge of his nose. “Murderers, traitors, and you pardoned them?” He feels his magic come unbidden, coil like a snake about his wrist waiting for the right moment to bite, poison, and kill.  


 

“If I didn’t we’d have blood in the streets! We already did! Fa’Rey saw to that. So while I dealt with the leaders, some in secret, some in public, I tried to heal the rifts her rain of terror caused by pardoning everyone else. And it’s  _ working _ for now. This city would be on fire now if it weren’t for that! But if I start going back on promises it will  _ stop  _ working. Everything I’ve tried to repair will crumble!”

The snake hisses, and his anger is hot enough to let it go but he must be sure.  
  


“So it’s about you then? A child killer runs free in the palace, one whose very memory terrorizes your princess and you’ll do nothing to save face? How long did it take for Fa’Rey to change your heart?”

 

“No!” 

 

Her sword flies free, he's ready to defend and counter but it strikes... air. She doesn’t swing for him, she doesn’t run him through, she just stands there ready to fight monsters of her own making. “I would...never…do any harm to them. _Never_.”

 

“Well,” He steps closer, his magic dissolves and he flicks a finger off her pointed blade. “You certainly don’t have any qualms about me. You should know, neither do I."  


 

She stiffens and her sword rises to his neck. “That’s what you don't understand Son of Odin! If you loved those girls the way I see you do, the way  _ I  _ do, you would  _ not  _ interfere!” He presses his luck, stays still and silent waiting for the Commander to make her move.

 

N’inge blinks first. She sheathes her weapon and withers to the floor, overwhelmed. Sword in hand, she could have challenge even him. Without it, she’s an old woman again. He approaches her cautiously, sniffs for lies or dramatics and finds none. She is no traitor.

 

“I am not simple, Commander N’inge, make me understand then.”

 

She shudders, her shoulders heave with her answer.

 

“The queen is not safe.” Her voice breaks and finally does understand. Admitting such, for a woman like her, is admitting failure. “And if it were as easy as killing everyone who even breathed a word of agreement with Fa'Rey, rest assured, they’d be dead and I’d relish the killing.”

 

She sticks an arm out, daring him not to help her up. He takes her arm and lifts, she feels too light for the weight she carries.

 

“You were the one. You led the counter-rebellion Fa’Rey told us about.”

 

He helps her back to her seat giving her time to decide how much or how little she wishes to disclose. She must have seen something worthy in him, because she nods. “Aye young man, I am. But I was also fighting an enemy older and bigger than Fa’Rey and her delusions of kingship.”

 

“What then?”

 

“Freedom.”

 

Loki winces, he knows exactly what she means. “From Asgard.”

 

“You’re smart sir. And Fa’rey, for all her faults, was smart too. She took advantage of a chaotic situation and covered the stink of her deeds with a perfume of legitimacy. In so doing she ignited those old and long simmering coals of rebellion. I’ve managed to tamp the fire back down again but whether it goes out largely depends on her  _ and you _ .

 

“Through Fa’Rey the separatists have had a taste of power, it was just delivered in less than palatable means. They are waiting now to see what direction this young queen will take. Will we cleave closer to Asgard or will we finally be able to stand on our own?

 

“When I learned our Queen was alive, I understood we had been lied to so…thoroughly. I killed the worst of the traitors. The ringleaders and the zealots, the ones who managed to survive my little counter-rebellion. I did the best I could, but I lost so many good lives, going any further would strain the loyalty I had and would've had me up against the kin of powerful people even I dare not provoke. Lords. Generals. Purse-string pulling merchants. The same people she needs on her side now if she’s to stay on her throne.”

 

She cracks a bit, he knows she’s old but but in her tears he sees every last one of her long years of life.

 

“But the people?” He asks. “They certainly didn’t act like they’re waiting for her to fail.”

 

“Oh they love her for sure. She was always a good cavalry commander like her father. An army she can lead. But knowing how to lead a soldier and how to rule a lord are two different things. Our queen died before she had the chance to teach her daughter how to handle those malcontents." 

His magic comes back, coils around his brain and squeezes until a single beautiful idea shakes free.

 

“And all the nobles feel this way?”

 

“Some do, others don’t. But most are in the middle waiting to see which way the reed swings. Cowards.” She spits. “Her mother had a damnable time with them. And the people loved her for it. They’ll love the daughter because they loved the mother. She who won our freedom and fought harder to keep it.”

 

“Kept ultimately with help from my father. Help that came with conditions.”

 

“Yes. Conditions some would like to see dissolved.”

 

“So I can imagine spending exile in an Asgardian court and returning with one of their princes does her no favors.”

 

She gives one solemn and heavy nod. “Her every move and deed will be watched by those who aren’t above using chaos and regicide to get what they want. So imagine their feelings when their queen returns with an  _ Asgardian Prince _ as a lover and a peasant girl for an heir! "  
  


He can imagine them, and he doesn't give one damn about it.

 

“I understand why you’re here. Your feelings. What happened to Se’risa and her family was monstrous. My heart breaks for her. But do you understand now, sir? We are barely holding on as it is. I can only control so much. So as much as I desire otherwise, I simply cannot do what you ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I infodump you with the political machinations of the lowlands under Fa'Rey's rule?  
> Yes.  
> Am I sorry?  
> Yes.  
> Will I do it again?  
> Yes.
> 
> Also! I have a tumblr from an old fandom I don't bother with anymore. I'm considering making another MCU flaovred one (lbr here a Loki blog lol) but since I don't use tumblr much anymore I don't really want it to be neglected.
> 
> However. I am very active on twitter but you'd be exposed to a lot of my normal every day boring non fic life.   
> What say you?


	4. The Hanged Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOP WOOP NEW CHARACTER POV ALERT WOOP WOOP

He takes disappointment well. He bleeds arrogance and unqualified confidence so she’s surprised when he swallows her difficult answer. He looks so used to getting his way, that he can throw a tantrum and his royal father would grant his wish. He tried that here, tried to browbeat her with her guilt over the girl and her failure to protect her queen from her enemies. It almost works, but her last plaintive old woman’s cry was enough to get to him to relent.

 

“I understand.” he says and dismisses himself. 

 

Brat. Only the stars know what you see in him.

 

She supposes he is handsome at the very least, and there’s passion that smolders under his icebound eyes, like he has some bit of frost giant in him.

 

A Laufeyson instead of an Odinson. 

 

“My how the tongues would wag.” She mutters.

 

But you wouldn’t care. You love him for whatever unfathomable reason you do and no amount of lineage, monster or no, would change that. That’s what makes you so good. Your heart.

 

And that’s what will kill you. That too good heart. 

 

From the snatches of stories she’s heard of your time in Asgard it almost did on a few occassions. She supposes then she should be less contemptuous of that prince.

 

But here, he can’t protect you anymore.

 

She can. 

 

Her failures end now.

 

Though it doesn’t feel that way watching the prince leave her chamber. That little girl doesn’t deserve to be terrorized by her memories every time she walks these halls. 

 

By her own decree, retaliation against rank and file soldiers who participated in the palace massacre or any of Fa’Rey’s killing sprees were forbidden. Fa’Rey was effective in her duplicity and knew how to play into the people’s desires. If she punished everyone who agreed with her separatist rhetoric than by her own hand she would hang and more than half the country with her.

 

It meant she let a lot of murders go free, a stain on her honor that she will account for when the stars demand her judgement. But your stability, your throne, your country, and your life mean more than her honor. Mean more than the living nightmare of a little girl.

 

But still, the thought pierces through guilt and lodges in the back of her brain. Surely old woman you can do something. 

 

There’s a bell on her desk. In her younger years she could simply shout and a page would come running. Now the bell must serve as her voice. Time will replace her bit by bit. A cane will serve as her legs, a hound will take her eyes, and her son will write her letters. She could be a dusty bed-bound corpse but as long as her will remains, she remains.

 

And she can still do  _ something _ .

 

“Commander?” The man who answers is young, fresh, she doesn’t know him. She wonders, as she does with all her soldiers, if he’s a new recruit come to fill the holes rebellion and counter-rebellion left empty, or if he was one of the snakes that eluded punishment. She can’t ask, and there’s no way to tell. 

 

To show her sincerity for reconciliation every soldier’s record was destroyed. She had the Sages burn the rolls in front of them.

 

“The traitor Fa’Rey is dead! Her despicable father along with her!” She lies to them. You should have struck their heads off damn you! She will have to work to keep you safe and your country whole and she’ll have to work twice as hard against your own damn heart by stars! 

 

“Their lies are exposed and now their bodies lie at the bottom of the great Pale Sea! I know there are those who followed them. Some because they shared their hate, others because they knew a soldier’s duty is to their ruler. The former I have punished, the latter I set free.”

 

It will take time to heal the damage Fa’Rey has done. 

 

That task is yours and yours only.

 

But maybe... That little girl must have been a great comfort to you, worth throwing away every tradition to make her your heir. She must have kept you sane, reminded you of home. Maybe this one thing she can do. To ease her burden.

 

And yours.

 

You’ve been gone for days now, your burdens surely crush you. But…  

 

“Find for me Guard Agah and bring her to me.”

 

She can still do  _ something _ .

 

**

 

N’inge doesn’t notice when she doesn’t appear. She has more pressing issues to manage. Lady Khadija is a wretched woman, pestering her about when the coronation will take place, needling her for information for every little detail.

 

Hava would have had it done by now, planned and waiting simply for execution. 

 

N’inge doesn’t notice when she doesn’t appear the second day, fielding questions from the prince about your whereabouts.

 

“She’s with the Sages. Her coronation requires rituals and preparations that take days to complete.”

 

She knows that he knows she’s lying.

 

It is only by the third day she notices. She tracks down the scout prepared to flay him alive.

 

“I told you bring me Agah!”

 

“I...I know,” he stammers. “But I haven’t been able to find her. Her superiors have her marked absent and she hasn’t shown up for duty in three-- ma’am?”

 

The Commander pushes past him, leaves his question unanswered.

 

“Ma’am? Where are you going?”

 

Silent and fuming she marches for the Magnolia Room. She doesn’t knock, she doesn’t announce, she opens the door and--

 

“Concentrate princess.”

 

“I am!”

 

The Commander walks into a lighting storm. A fork of electric light passes through her body but she feels nothing, no pain, only a slight tingling warmth. Grey clouds hang from the ceiling, raindrops fall and evaporate before they hit the floor. Wind whistles through the windowpanes and rustles the curtains and undoes the pins in her hair. She smells the scent of water on rock, of lightning right before it strikes and at the epicenter is a little girl with the biggest smile on her face while a Prince stands beside her and reminds her to focus. 

 

“What have you--”

 

The storm sucks into the little girls fingertips and disappears.

 

“Very good princess, very good.” The prince commends her and her smile widens, takes up her face and the room brightens behind it. “Now eat, magic drains the body. Feed it.”

 

She nods and dutifully shoves a sesame cake into her mouth. The Commander smells the honey and remembers Se’rasa’s talents.

 

“Commander N’inge. To what do we owe the pleasure?”   
  


One look into those icebound, possibly frost giant eyes and she knows he knows. He taunts her. Dares her to make a scene in front of the girl.

 

“I told you…”

 

“I know…”

 

“So why….?”

 

“Because.”

 

“Commander?” The scout interjects. “About Agah, should we launch an investigation...?”

 

He taunts her with a smirk. “Oh my, someone go missing?”

 

“No need.” She answers. “I remember now. Agah was a gambler. She’d racked up a considerable debt in the taverns. I wanted to speak with her about it, offer help but I suspect, since she’s gone, she’s fled.”

 

“Or her debtors have finally collected.” The prince supplies.

 

“Indeed,” N’inge agrees. “See if you can find her, but don’t spend too much effort.”

 

The scout bows and leaves them, set to his new task. N’inge waits for the scout to disappear before fixing a terrible glare on the prince.

 

“A word.”

 

“Of course. Se’risa practice your fire now, take care not to burn the palace down. Shall we Commander?”

 

The smile he returns lights one million fires of rage in her chest. His  _ carelessness _ could cost you everything. 

 

“These are not your killing fields. You can’t just…”

 

“I can. I am. And I will.”

 

“If people start dying or disappearing someone soon will start making connections!”

 

“That one was more for my sake than anything else. Going forward, my role will be...mostly...advisory.”

 

The arrogance makes her seethe. “Your role? As what?”

 

“Your spymaster.”

 

“You can’t be serious!” Her anger flares in her voice.

 

“Prince Loki? Are you in trouble with Commander N’inge?” Se’risa tries to get between the two adults but both shoo her back to her magic while considerably lowering their voices.”

 

“Think about it. I am capable of things you are not. I’m not bound by your laws or your promises. I’ve made only one promise and I’ll keep it.”

 

“You're an ambassador. You negotiate tariffs and treaties. You’re not a spymaster. You don’t know our ways!”

 

Loki looks back at the girl. “Oh I think I I’ll have a good teacher. And obviously I can do both, the former providing good cover for the latter. Excellent lie by the way, if only the Queen could learn the talent. Her heart's too damn good we’ll work twice as hard just against that.”

 

Mild shock slackens her face. Oh… so maybe he does understand. Still. She’s not sure working with a stars damned  _ Asgardian Prince _ is the wisest course of action. “You love them?”

 

“All my heart.”

 

“And you’ll protect them?”

 

“All my soul.”

 

“I can’t trust my own soldiers. How can I trust the foreign milk prince?”

 

Loki shrugs. “Take it on faith.”

 

“That doesn’t help.”

 

He shrugs again.

 

“I did it!”

 

The princess barges between them again and holds up a robust flame contained in the palm of her hand.

 

“So you have, girl!” He praises her. “Good show.” 

 

“Oh! I want to show the Queen. Can I show the Queen, Commander?”

 

The Prince glances at her and makes an offering of good faith. “Well, filly, the Queen, you see she’s…”

 

“Yes.” 

 

She’s heard the rumors, she knows of Odin’s younger son, the darker one, the trickster and the liar. He has certainly proven to be  _ all _ of those things but she sees more now, like looking at black sky and seeing the tiny light of a star peek through. 

  
“Yes you may see the Queen, little one. I know where she is. I will take you to her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate (lol I really love it tbh) how this is lowkey setting up a Lowlands story arc (boy howdy do I have the IDEAS) There's just so much to play with there, and the conflict is built in.  
> CHILE  
> NONE OF THIS IS PLANNED I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING
> 
> EDIT: fine  
> a tumblr  
> sidrisa.tumblr.com  
> it's empty *for now*


	5. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Added an extra scene at the end.
> 
> I haven't forgotten about this fic or Ailments and Acquisitions. Both will be finished! Thank you for your patience!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW: Severe depression

 

On the first day you scream, you shout your pain until your breath runs out and your voice turns into a dry and scratchy, painful thing. When it returns you scream again. For hours you wail. You remember the times you upset your mother, made her cry, disappointed her. With perfect clarity you recall the times you made her sad as if that was the only emotion you ever inspired in her.

 

You remember when you lied to her about visiting the peasant girl who lived by the river. She was a thief and a fence but you were convinced she was your friend. You lost a gold bracelet to her, the last personal relic of your grandmother. You never saw the girl or the gold again.

 

You remember when you snuck out of the palace for a ride on her horse, Lady a War, the mare she raised and trained from foal to filly to warmount. She said you were too young and Lady too wild for you to handle. Your father agreed. You didn’t. You snuck out with Lady, riding far afield until a knot in the grass caught her hoof, snapping her foreleg in half. When they found you, mother wept to see her. You remember being upset, you could have been crushed or eaten by wolves or frozen but all _she_ cared for was the animal. Mother made you watch her put Lady down, weeping the entire time.

 

You remember your last fight, the fool you made of her and yourself arguing in front of Lord Odin.

_“Mother Please! Listen to me, or forces have never taken the field without the Royal Cavalry, we are your best troops!”_

_“I don’t need you to remind me of strategy. Now go!”_

_“Mother!”_

_“Captain!”_

 

The next day you saw her off as was custom, watched as she rode away with Odin and his sons, leaving your cavalry, her best soldiers, behind. You remember seething with fury, you remember the shame you felt for being left behind.

 

You remember every awful moment in your relationship up until the last time you saw her alive but for some reason you can’t remember the last words you shared.

 

You were angry. But did you tell her you loved her?

 

Did she kiss your forehead as she’s done every time she’s rode away since you were a child. Did she say goodbye, did she wave? Or did she, still enmeshed in her disappointment, simply turn her back on you and ride away?

 

You have only the dimmest memory of that day. You can’t remember what, if anything, she said to you before riding to her doom.

 

In the darkest moment of that first day, you would have cheerfully traded your life for a chance to remember.

 

**

 

On the second day. You are silent.

 

In your lands there is a custom. Before burning, the honored dead are given a night long vigil where the closest loved ones, spouses, parents, children, keep watch. The vigils keep the demons away, those who come to steal unguarded souls to work their forges in Hel.

 

You wonder, then, if the demons claimed her. Fa’Dan said she was buried with every honor but it doesn’t matter. His treachery taints them. You were her daughter, this was _your_ duty.

 

It should have been you, and you weren’t here.

 

Your guilt overrides reason and years of arrested grief settle on your shoulders. You buckle under its weight.

 

There are rites, and rules, and customs. They’ve gone neglected.

 

No longer.

 

You don white robes, paint your face in bone ash, and you are silent.

 

You can tell from the stilted meter of the steps and the hard click of the cane on stone it’s Commander N’inge they’ve sent after you.

 

“My queen.”

 

You raise your head and press your palm to the stone slab covering your mother’s ashes. You reject her voice, her summons, her reason for being here. You reject everything that isn’t this cool stone walled room, bone white and lit with the wan light of a dying torch.

 

Your voice strains through your scream injured throat, it fights every syllable before spitting them at her feet.

 

“She is dead.”

 

“She is not. She lies before me when she has work to do. Come. You’ve a coronation to plan. Lady Khadija will not leave me alone about it.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Lady Khad...Lady Hava’s... replacement.”

 

Hava’s name sends another lance of pain through your body. You physically recoil from it, wincing as your fist balls up, nails scratching against your mother’s stone sepulchre.

 

Hava was your mother’s handmaiden, to her what Niti became to you. Hava was her friend, her advisor, her comfort when her husband died. She was that same comfort to you. She now lies in a grave marked with your name. Fa’Rey’s trick to deceive the people.

 

She was a body who suited their needs. They dressed her as you, threw her in a vault, and sealed it. Who kept the demons from her?

 

It should have been you and you weren’t here.

 

“My Queen…” It’s not N’inge’s voice that startles you, it is the name she calls you.

 

“Do not call me that.”

 

“I can, I am, I will, for that’s what you are. And your people need you, my queen.”

 

“ENOUGH! The rites must be honored.”

  
“I was here, they were..”

 

“But not by _me_! It should have been me! I was her daughter, I was _both_ their daughters.”

 

You flinch when N’inge calls you queen again. That knife in your heart twisting, tearing flesh and feelings as it goes.

 

“Your people look for you. You walked in the streets as they called your name, they still call your name wondering when they’ll see you again. We have mourned so much.” She places her hand above yours, your nails jagged from being broken on the stone. “Now is the time for joy. Come back to us.”

 

N’inge you have known for your whole life. Your mother’s favorite commander second only to her brother. You have never known her to be warm. And she isn’t now. But there is a tenderness in her eyes and voice, in the hand she laid across yours.

 

You take it. Squeeze it in thanks.

 

And in apology.

 

“You have mourned, N’inge. I have not.”

 

You let her hand go, and turn to face the stone vaults where your parents, all three, lie.

 

**

 

On the third day, you feel Death.

 

Grief has worn you thin. Guilt, thinner. You don’t have the strength to lift your head from the dust of the ground. Nor really, the will.

 

Some part of you expected this. Grief deferred, like dreams, explode. You expected this sadness, this grief, but it is the guilt that holds your face to the dirt. Makes it hard for you to breathe.

 

Your thoughts spiral back to that night and you wonder what you could have done differently. You could have fought harder. Smarter. You could have escaped the palace and summoned the city guards. You could have fought to take back your home from the usurpers.

 

It would a been a good plan.

 

And it would have worked.

 

Se’risa would have died with her mother, but it would have worked.

 

You would have never met Niti or Edvard. Lady Astra would still be alive and Lady Ylva would have gotten exactly what she wanted.

 

But your plan would have worked.

 

Yet you didn’t do any of that.

 

You ran away, and stayed away. Content to play princess in exile, keeping all of your name without any of its responsibilities, in a kingdom your country at best has cool feelings for and at worst openly despises to the point of armed conflict. Asgard has always been your ally, and you have always been their their punching bag. The best of your soldiers are always chewed up in Odin’s war machine while the best of his grow fat and happy off the tribute you pay him.  

 

Maybe then you can’t fault the soldiers that took up arms against you. It’s likely they lost family in the battle that claimed your mother. Maybe they have children or wives or fathers that could have been lost the next time Odin came calling.

 

Maybe that night, they decided they would rather take their chances with a queen that would finally sever the puppet strings that pull you.

 

And not one who would honor them in public with vows of loyalty and in private by taking one of their princes to her bed.

 

Maybe then,

 

You deserve this.

 

This pain is earned, it’s warranted, it's your punishment for not fighting harder, smarter. You deserve this because even if the God of Time came to you right now and gave you that chance to fight harder and smarter. To make your plan work.

 

You’d tell him no.

 

For the life of a peasant girl you hardly knew.

 

And for the love of a prince you have, by all rights, no business with at all.

 

You haven’t slept in three days. You haven’t eaten. You didn’t even accept the sip of water from one of the guards as she pleaded with you to, convinced you were hours from death.

 

And if you are, like you _feel_ you are.

 

You deserve it.

 

**

 

You hear footsteps, stilted ones, accompanied by the hard click of a cane.

 

And more.

 

N'inge. And from the sound of it, she's not alone. She's probably fed with her, and brought guards to psychically carry you away from your tomb.

 

You'll let them, you decide. There's isn't much fight in you, heart or body.

 

Arms wrap around your shoulder.

 

But they don't lift. They're smaller, softer.

 

They're not the guantleted hands of a guard

 

But those of a child.

 

"It's okay, Princess. We're here now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe I was in a good mood when I wrote this?
> 
> Se'risa and the Princess definitely had some things they needed to work through that I didn't fully address in Power and Magic, issues they would have been violently confronted with upon returning home. This fic attempts to address that while building a bridge to more stories of Southlands (if y'all can suffer anymore of my parade of OCs and conflicts no one but me really care about.)
> 
> BTW fic ain't done. IDK how many chapters are left maybe another 3 or 4 we'll see.  
> And, as always  
> Thanks


	6. The Magician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point if you're still here, bless you.

The child breaks the spell, dislodging the roots that kept everyone in place. Niti moves, then Edvard. They kneel around you, put their hands on your shoulders and back. You gasp but your body’s too worn to startle.

 

He remains where he stands, discontent to only watch but watching anyway. What comfort can he offer you? What can he say? His only talents have ever been his words but what use are they to you? Words can’t undo your hurt, can’t fill the hole in your heart. So why say them? Why offer you such hollow and empty things?

 

He has nothing for you. Nothing to offer. So he stands stricken and silent, glad for Niti and Se’risa and, yes, even Edvard the Fool. They have the softness he lacks, the tenderness he can’t seem to summon for all his useless words.

 

Rage simmers in your voice when you finally speak. “None of you should be here.”

 

“What do you mean?” Niti asks. “We’ve been here 5 whole days, no tour, no feast, nothing. Waiting on you.”

 

“There are rites.” You mumble bitterly, lifting your head to glare. He knows that look, pain so profound even comfort stings. 

“And you’ve more than observed them, my lady.” Edvard offers. “You should rest now.”

 

“N’inge put you up to this?” You accuse.

 

“She didn’t have to. I wanted see you. We all did. We missed you.”

 

“I’m…” You choke a bit, on the dust, and your dry throat, and your sadness. “I’m sorry Se’risa. But I have to---”

 

“You have a country to run! A throne that sits empty!” N’inge emerges from the shadows, her cane clicking on the marble covered in the sand and dust. “I brought them here to rouse some sense into you. To remind you of what you have to do.”

 

Fire snakes up Loki’s spine. How dare she talk to  _ her Queen _ that way. To  _ you _ .

 

“As much as I disagree with her tone, she’s not wrong you know. It’s been long enough.” Niti’s gentle with her agreement, she picks a clump of ash from your tangled hair. Gently, gingerly, like you’re an animal who might strike.

 

It galls him.

 

Edvard rises and offers his hand to help you up. “Yes. We should go.”

 

You don’t move. Your tears make mud on your face, leave tracks in your skin. You start to shake your head,  “I... _ can’t. _ ”

 

N’inge interrupts, clicks her cane on the stone like a houndmaster rebuking a whelp. “Let. Us. Go.”

 

The tenuous grip he had on his anger slips free.

 

“No!” 

 

There’s no comfort in him. No tenderness. No softness. If all he has for you is words, then he’ll use them now. And now he has a perfect target. “ _ You _ go.”

 

N’inge grasps her cane like it’s a sword she’s ready to unsheathe. She opens her mouth to do battle but the Prince roars above her.

 

“Out! All of you! NOW!”

 

Niti rises to her feet and cooly sidles between him and your Commander. “Loki, C’mon. Look at her. Even you can’t let her…”

 

“ _Let her?_ ” His voice tips into a full throated scream. “She’s a queen and you think she should granted your permission!?”

 

“So what! We just let her sit here?” He’s never heard Niti angry, and if he wasn’t half mad, he’d be touched by her concern for you. 

 

But he’s half mad, so the touch doesn’t reach that deeply.

 

“If she wishes to spend the rest of her days in mourning, then inscribe her words in gold and nail them to every post between here and the gates of Asgard! You’re all her servants, your job is to  _ serve _ .”

 

Niti’s far from her old life as a servant. She’s a duchess now with lands and wealth and titles. If she serves you now, it’s because she chooses to. Because you’re her friend. You never thought of her as your servant, you never made her feel like one.

 

Loki reminds her of that feeling.

 

She makes a small sad noise and backs down.

 

N’inge scoffs as her support withers away. “Don’t think I don’t know what you're doing. Your rules would apply to even you,  _ serpent _ .”

 

“Rules? What rules bind me?  _ I _ am not her subject,” His laugh cuts like a brand, his smile growing as N’inge’s face darkens when she follows his line of thought. “But  _ you _ are.” 

 

He stands between you and them, words like a bulwark shielding your pain from those who would intrude upon it. If he could make it go away, he would. But he knows he can’t, he knows this is all he has. You are a queen now, queens are to be obeyed. 

 

Especially you.

 

“Well… what are you waiting for?  Go. Or stay and prove me right about you. What will you do to make her bend to your will?" He lists them off his fingers like condemnations of actions she's already done. "Will you call for the guards to drag her away? Will they drag her through the streets? Onto her throne? It’s enough to make one wonder who really is queen here.”

 

N’inge inhales sharply like she’s taken a wound. Hava was the cloth that comforted while N’inge was always the steel that stung but  _ never _ has her loyalty wavered. The old woman balks, mouth agape, hurt set deep into her face. "I would  _never..._ My queen I'd...you know I'd..."

 

She gives you one last long suffering glance. A word from you could rebuke him and end this, but you remain frozen, glassy eyed and distant. She sighs and leaves wordlessly, her plan failed. 

 

Grimly satisfied, Loki tosses his head towards the door and Niti and Edvard follow after.

 

Your servants finally do as you bid, they leave you.

 

And now there’s only one left.

 

Se’risa holds tight to your shoulders, defiance in her eyes. “I’m not leaving her. I’m not a servant, I’m a princess, and you can’t make me go!”

 

Loki’s face softens. Commanders, Duchesses, even fools he can deal with. Little girls less so. “I know little filly.”

 

Her defensive grip on you loosens just a bit. “You’re not gonna make me go too?”

 

He shakes his head. “How can I? It is as you say, you are a princess. You go and do as you please.”

 

He flops ungraciously into the dirt and ash beside you. The tomb is cramped, of course, and there is the lingering stench dry death. But if it will do for you, 

 

“As do I.”

 

It will do for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No seriously. Bless you. 
> 
> Also: would you believe there's another chapter waiting in the wings 98% done and significantly less painful?  
> Well there is and it's coming.


	7. Knight of Cups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, those of you who stick around. I appreciate and love you all. This chapter is 100% less sad than the last one. Promise.
> 
> This chapter recalls plot elements of Power and Magic, we hope you remember.
> 
> Also also also
> 
> LOKI IS A DICK

“Hypocrite.” You mutter, voice raking over what feels like smoking coals in your throat.

 

He brushes off the insult. “Yes, absolutely. You should know by now I’m not above hypocrisy to get what I want.”

 

“And what if  _ I  _ want you to leave too. You want people to obey me yet you don’t.”

 

He smiles even though he’s annoyed. The first words you’ve spoken to him in days and they’re full of contempt rather than gratitude. Though he supposes he should be grateful you’re speaking at all, your anger is far easier to stomach rather than your pain. He knows how to deal with anger, as intimate as he is with it. Pain too, but only if it’s his own. 

 

With you, he’d rather inflict pain upon the world until yours ends. He supposes he’s like his brother in that regard, punching problems until they stop being problems.

 

He can’t punch away death. He can’t punch away what makes you hurt.

 

But your anger he can handle, amplify, make it eclipse all other feelings and stoke that fire until it burns away everything else.

 

Of course he prefers your happiness most of all, but he’s in a crypt with your dead family, he’ll take what you offer.

 

And give as good as he gets.

 

“A queen should be a obeyed, yes. But a queen should also have the power to enforce the commands she gives.”

 

He leans close, unphased by your red rimmed eyes and dirt smudged face. He’s giving you the telltale smirk he uses to announce all his kisses. He even reaches for you, fingers tipping your chin so he can better get at your mouth. 

 

You don’t know if you want this kiss, you don’t know if you don’t want it. So you remain still, heart thudding, eyes instinctively slipping closed as you feel his breath blow across your lips.

 

You feel…

 

A finger press to your cheek as he smudges the dirt across your face. He rubs the mud between his fingers, smile still lighter than the film of dust he wipes off of you.

 

“In other words, if you want me to leave, you’ll have to make me.”

 

He can’t tell if the face you make in response is a smile or a sneer.

 

And you can’t either.

 

So you groan and turn away from him. 

 

“Go away,” you complain turning back to the marble entombing your parents.

 

But there he is again, standing before your mother’s vault, face inscrutable.

 

“I suppose introductions are in order. You already know me, my lady, we fought together briefly before. At the time I thought it was punishment being stuck in the vanguard with you. I now wish I had made better use of that too short a time to get to know you better. It is unfortunate that we meet again like this.”

 

He keeps his back to you. He’s not even speaking to you. Shock moves your mouth for half a minute before you can find words to say. “Loki...stop-”

 

“If I’m going to spend a great deal of time down here, I should probably get to know the locals yes?”

 

Greif has been your constant and only companion for five days that felt more like years. You don’t know what to do with such blithe disregard except stare open mouthed as he moves on to your father.

 

“Now you I never had the pleasure of meeting formally. I am Prince Loki of Asgard.”

 

He tips his head in respect to your father, bowing as a prince would to a king...or as a suitor to a lover's father.

 

Se’risa sees your stunned distress and takes advantage of the brief lull. “Prince Loki maybe it’s better if you don’t--”

 

He makes a buzzing noise and holds up a finger to silence Se’risa. When she protests again he makes a louder, more annoyed sound but the smile never leaves his face. Nor do the words stop.

 

“Though, as I think on it, maybe we did meet. Perhaps at some royal function when I was too young to know or care who you were. Not your fault, I always was a little shit. But the little I _do_ know of you, I know from your daughter. As I recall, she got her spear-play from you. And a very nasty right hook. You should be proud. However, you  _ should _ have taught your daughter better sense. She chose me after all, little shit as I still am.”

 

You rise on trembling legs as he moves to the last vault. He pauses, his heart freezes in terror for a moment before he remembers.

 

“There's a mistake here. This is your name not the nurse-”

 

You slam your hand on the plaque, covering up your name written in gold. 

 

“Her name is Hava and enough of your jests! Leave.”

 

He shakes his head.  “As I said, make me.”

 

Tears brew in the corners of your eyes. They weren’t supposed to meet like this!

 

“ _ Please _ leave.”

 

Loki cants his head to the side. “You think anybody will do as you say just because you ask nicely?”

 

“You should because  _ I’m _ asking.”

 

Ah. There you are.  On any other day you’d be right, he’d stop because you asked. But Niti’s sympathy didn’t rouse you, nor did Edvard’s empathy. But inciting your rage seems to work. You’re walking now, and talking. He can hear in your voice the old you crawling back from the depths of your despair. You’re among the living again and he mean to keep you here by any means necessary. Even rage.

 

He ignores you, turns back to the vault. “You’re the nursemaid.”

 

You punch him, you crack your fist right across the jaw. It hurts but there’s tragically little power behind it. His jaw vibrates but stays intact. If you hadn’t been involuntarily fasting nigh unto death for the last 5 days, it would have shattered.

 

“Her name is Hava!”

 

He doesn’t answer you. Instead he turns back to your father, fingers pressed to his lip to staunch the blood. “See? You should be very proud.”

 

You draw back for another strike and let your fist fly, but your legs give out before you can connect again. It’s too soon, too fast, and there’s too little food in your stomach or energy in your bones. The world spins and tips you over.

 

You crash back into the dust.

 

“My lady!” 

 

Se’risa’s too small to lift your body whole, but she can at least keep your head out of the dirt. Too little too late though to keep it from rapping hard against the marble. You’re knocked senseless, to the brink of unconsciousness, but anger keeps you sound enough to hear Loki continue talking.

 

“My apologies.”

 

He’s not talking to you still. But the arrogance softens, and the mischief in his voice smooths out into something tender-like.

 

“I’m sorry you had to see that. But you know her, you know she’s stubborn. Foolish too. And she’s nai..."

 

“She’s loving like you Mistress Hava.” Se’risa chimes in, stopping Loki from listing anymore of your numerous faults. “She saved my life, she takes care of me, braids my hair. She made me a princess when I could have stayed an orphaned servant. I’ll take care of her even if he doesn’t want to.”

 

Brewing tears fall free, you moan and try to move but your limbs won’t listen anymore. Your head swirls in a black morass of pain, but you resist the sleep you desperately need to keep fighting. Willing yourself to rise so you can beat your prince bloody.

 

“Yes, she is all of those things too. Brave like you my lady. With a nasty hook like you my lord. And with a loving, protective spirit like you Mistress Hava. And for that, for making her what she is, you all all have my unending gratitude.”

 

Your vision dims, you’re losing your fight. You hear shuffling feet in dust, then feel strong cool hands encircle and lift.

 

“I hope you don’t mind if I borrow her for now. Don’t worry, I’ll never ill use her unless she asks.”

 

Se’risa half-gasps half-shrieks. 

 

“Sorry filly, that wasn’t for you to hear.”

 

“You can’t just…. _ say _ that!”

 

“Trust me, if they’re watching they know. And that's grown up talk. Never you mind." He quiets his voice again. "You all have done your job. I will take over from now on.”

 

Se’risa coughs indignantly. “ _ We _ .”

 

He relents to the child. “Yes, fine filly, we.  _ We _ will take over from now. Worry not about your daughter.”

 

He moves and in his arms you move with him. You feel his body bend like he’s bowing again. 

 

“She will be loved, always. Cared for, always. So rest, my lord and ladies. And rest well.” He commands. 

 

“Rest.” He says as you feel him move, as he cradles you in his arms. “Assured.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I conceive of it right now, you should only have 2 more chapters left.
> 
> But as I write them, who knows, you may get more. 
> 
> Regardless though, there isn't much left to this part of the story.
> 
> ADDENDUM: I have revived the tumblr! Come follow, leave asks, send messages, give me something to do please! 
> 
> https://sidrisa.tumblr.com/


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